Folsom (End of Men, #1)(68)

I step back to signify that my speech is over, my eyes glued to the floor.

There are thirty seconds where I panic. I’ve said too much or perhaps too little. I’ve not made sense. I consider the fact that I have no allies, and I’ll be escorted right to jail. And then I look up as I hear the sound of one pair of hands, slapping vigorously together. An older woman with dark skin and a severely curved back. Her hair is the color of snow and she looks too fragile to clap that hard, but there’s a look of anger and determination on her face. I smile at her faintly, grateful for her support. And then five more stand up…ten. They’re all clapping, a small thunder in the room. I let out a haggard breath as the rest of the women stand up together. How many? Six hundred? Seven? I glance at the doctor whose lips are pursed as she too gazes at the sea of faces. She looks over and catches my eyes, smiling faintly as if she’s both happy and terribly moved.

“Well done,” she mouths.

Doctor Hunley tells them I need to rest and that our visit today has been against the support of the governor.

“I’ll continue posting the messages Gwen gives me and we will meet again…someplace larger next time. Invite everyone you know,” Doctor Hunley says. “And for those of you who are in a place where you can…I have this reminder for you.” She holds up a laminated page with eye-catching font and reads aloud: “Stop providing what the elite are accustomed to demanding. It starts with us.”

Phoebe helps me down the steps and to the car. She hands me a container with my favorite dessert: lemon cake.

“Be encouraged and take care of that baby boy. Be on guard day and night,” she says in my ear, trying to keep the worry from her eyes. I know her so well.

“It helps me just to see your face,” I tell her.

The cheers are still ringing in my ears when we leave. I’m exhausted but rejuvenated. Everyone in the car is giddy.

“I didn’t know there were so many,” I say.

“How often do you leave the upper end?” The driver looks at me knowingly from the rearview mirror.

Touché.

The doctor turns around in her seat to look at me. “They’ve been here, Gwen. They have no voice. Much like the End Men. And if you want to create a movement, you find like-minded people and give them a name for their cause. This isn’t just about the End Men. It’s about humanity, like you said.”

Before I get out of the car, Doctor Hunley reaches for my arm and looks to make sure I’m listening. “Gwen, be careful.”

I nod. “I’ll do my best.”

Pippa’s basement room feels especially like a prison cell when I return, but seeing all of those kind faces today…I have a new purpose. What helps the most, though, is holding onto the promise that we will save Folsom and Laticus from the Society soon. Everything will be okay if they are safe.

Over the next couple of weeks, I write posts and start exposing the facts behind Genome Y, along with a view of my brief time in the compound. Each week, a new tidbit, such as:

Treatment of the people continues to decline.

The End Men require drugs to perform multiple times daily.

Genome Y spent three million dollars last year on the new sperm injection research.

The numbers of the impoverished grow exponentially in each Region—why are we killing the people on our planet in our efforts to repopulate it?

Pippa sweeps down to the basement one night, waving her Silverbook. “We need to cut your hairs,” she says, wrinkling her nose. “We can’t have you leaving my presences looking like such menaces.”

She shows picture after picture of me speaking at what I thought were clandestine meetings.

“I couldn’t care less about my dull, split-end hair. This means there’s a leak and it could be someone who’s watching our every move!” I glance at the article underneath and go cold. I suddenly feel very small and like I’m not equipped to finish what I started.

War is coming, it says.





THIRTY-FIVE





GWEN


The smell of grease and garlic, the clatter of silverware and plates, laughter and the banging of doors as customers come and go—these are the sounds and smells of my day. At night, when things grow quiet and Pippa locks up the restaurant, I can’t sleep. I listen to the sound of Laticus breathing, my toes curling and uncurling under the covers, waiting for morning to come. My body is cumbersome, but my mind is not. It races through possibilities: how long can they keep us here before we’re found? Where is Folsom? Will I give birth in this dungeon room with nothing to look at besides these brick walls? The baby kicks at my ribs, little feet stretching. Not much longer now. I can’t bend over, and my feet have swollen so much I can’t fit into shoes. Pippa lends me a pair of hers and I waddle around with pink furry slippers. I wait for the days they tell me there’s a rally. I live for the excitement of sneaking out after it’s dark, being ushered into buildings where women are crammed together, their faces eager and expectant. After a few times of us leaving, Laticus asks to come.

“We can’t trusts that it’s safe for yous out there,” Pippa explains. “You’re who everyones is looking for.”

“They’re looking for Gwen too,” he argues.

“Yeah, to arrest her. They want to sell your manhoods to the highest bidders.”